


Into White

by Dionysiaca



Series: Cats and Dogs [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dorian and Cullen are getting married!!!, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weddings, fluff & smut, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dionysiaca/pseuds/Dionysiaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For thebrokentemplar's prompt on Tumblr: "'Isn't white the colour of innocence?'  A harmless question from Dorian, turning into a sad talk about his past when Cullen and Dorian are trying to figure out what to wear to their wedding."</p><p>I kind of ran away with this one, because Dorian and Cullen getting married is the cutest, and I had so much fun planning it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into White

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to thebrokentemplar for the prompt and to WitchoftheWaste for passing it on and betaing this.
> 
> NOTE: This is in the Cats and Dogs universe, so it might not make much sense if you haven't read the other fics in that series. Enjoy!

‘Do you really want me to wear white, beloved?  I’m not especially innocent.’

‘Actually, you are.’

Dorian made a face.  ‘Many things, my love, but not innocent.’ 

‘Yes, you are.  You’ve never been married, have you?  That’s all it is. And is it wrong of me to think you’ve never been in love before?’

Dorian’s lips grazed Cullen’s chest.  ‘No, you’re right about that.  Well, not like this.  There were many crushes.  Many casual amours. But nothing – reciprocal. I never knew being loved would make me love _more._ ’    

Cullen turned the astonishingly lovely face up to his so he could take the smiling mouth with his own.

The kiss deepened, but at last Dorian let go.  ‘Funny. I never thought I would be. Married, I mean. My parents used to talk of it constantly.  My father always acted as if my marriage was his fantasy.  And my wedding night the consummation of all his own desires. His wet dream. But you, my darling, were very much not what he had in mind.’

Cullen kissed the waves of black hair under his mouth.  Dorian was lying with his head resting on Cullen’s naked chest. 

‘He wanted it so much. Do you know about conversion therapy, my darlingest?’

Cullen shook his head, but his heart gave a warning jump.  It would be nothing good, he knew that. 

‘My father organised that for me with a group of radical therapists working outside the relevant professional bodies.  They institutionalised me.  Then they showed me gay porn – very blurry and scruffy – and then they have me shots of apomorphine as soon as I got hard.’  

‘What’s apomorphine?’ He kept his voice very gentle and calm. 

‘An incredibly powerful emetic.  You spew your guts up, instantly.  Because all the – _patients –_ were bound in chairs, you spewed on yourself, on your own body, on those naughty recreant private bits you were meant to hate.’ 

He took a deep breath.

‘So that for my father was a price worth paying for a white wedding.’ 

Cullen’s arms tightened around Dorian as his voice cracked.  At that precise moment, he almost wished Dorian’s father was coming to the wedding, so he could punch him very hard in the face.  He felt almost blind with rage.  His hand cupped Dorian’s cock and balls, not caressing, but loving. 

‘I love you so much,’ he said, very softly.  ‘All of you. I’ll never leave, never.’

‘I know.  I know that.’ 

‘I’m just sorry it has to be in such a rush.’

‘They are flying the new kidney in tomorrow. There’s only today.’

Only today…And it was already getting light.  And already the little birds were singing. Singing heartless as if they had no idea that tomorrow everything might be gone.      

‘Ah, beloved.  This is not the end of us.  This is the beginning.’

Cullen swallowed.  ‘We can’t know that.’

‘Hence the wedding, surely?’

‘I thought it was the romantic way I proposed.’ 

He had in fact asked Dorian to marry him while prising open two foil containers of takeout curry.  The steam had made Dorian’s hair go straight, in a lick across his face, and Cullen had put up one hand and brushed it aside, and Dorian had caught his wrist and kissed the hand, and Cullen had found himself saying, ‘I want to marry you. I never want to be with anyone but you.’      Then Dorian had pushed the curries aside and his mouth had taken Cullen’s and he’d said, ‘Yes.  Yes,’ breathing it into the wetness like the moans of a lover delighted by a touch. 

Cullen had found his face smothered in kisses.  Dorian had been as delighted as a child. A naughty child, who had twisted his father’s dream.

He’d invited his father to the wedding, sending him a huge, stiff invitation card.   In gold calligraphic engraving, it said,

_Dorian Pavus and Cullen Rutherford invite you to celebrate their wedding with them._

Dates followed.  They were to be married in an old, half-ruined church, and the ceremony was to be performed by an old friend of Dorian’s, the Very Reverend Ellara Lavellan, a former Anglican who had recently become multifaith and just a little bit pagan.

They’d spent hours working out their vows.  Hours working out the flowers. 

But their clothes were Dorian’s to choose, to command and to surprise, so a steady stream of deliveries of wide shallow cardboard boxes came pattering through the morning. 

Two pairs of over-the knee boots, one in oxblood, the other plain dark brown. 

A knee-length pale blue coat for Cullen, with heavy gold braid on chest and shoulder. 

Dorian kissed him when he put it on.  ‘You look wonderful. Like Peter Pan dressed as Captain Hook.’

‘Maybe I’ll feel more like it after the trousers get here.’

‘I love you like this.  Just the coat, open all the way down.’

‘Well, _your_ trews are here.’ 

‘I’m wearing them.  We’re both half-dressed.  I hope they are tight enough for you.’ 

‘They couldn’t be too tight.’

Dorian wore just the trousers, black and silken, and the oxblood boots.  Cullen felt his head begin to get light and hot every time he looked at his bridegroom.  Maybe there’d be time before the ceremony – a whole hour and a half… time to touch, taste, _say what you mean – fuck._ He was half-hard already, his almost exposed cock tingling and heating.

 Experimentally, he drew a finger over the bulge in those very tight trousers and felt the hardness pulse and jump under his fingertips, heard Dorian moan, open-mouthed.  Dorian’s own hand found his way to Cullen’s stiff cock and palmed it sure and firm.  Their mouths met and clung. 

‘Shouldn’t – fuck till – afterwards – ‘

‘Not even your mouth -‘

‘But hands - ok, yes.  Oh god.  Please, yes, love.’  A hand slick with lube, Liquid Silk lube, well warmed, closed over him, and Cullen’s eyes shut in ecstasy. 

His own hand worked to undo the very tight trousers. The very act of fumbling, reaching his hand into the nest of Dorian’s fur while Dorian’s hand was on him, teasing, stroking.  Now his hand was clasped around Dorian’s long, slim cock and it struck him, absurdly, that this might be the perfect wedding, with hands in each other’s bits, feeling the immense heat surging through him in Dorian’s cock too. 

He segued his strokes to Dorian’s, but was careful to touch him more lightly than Dorian was touching him; Dorian liked a light touch, a feather touch to make him moan and plead, but he was soundless now.  Cullen felt his own head go back as Dorian’s did, and the thick hot liquid spilled in his hand just as he felt himself spasming in huge and aching release as the great hot river of delight took both of them, dashed away thought. 

The doorbell rang, very loudly, and both of them jumped about a foot. 

Dorian did up his trousers with one hand while waving his other hand at Cullen, telling him to hide, then trying to get him to stop laughiing. 

In the doorway stood Josephine, almost invisible behind a pile of white cardboard boxes.

‘Josie!’

‘Hello, Dorian. I found all these in the hall, and thought you might not have heard the delivery people.’   

She came right in with the boxes. 

Dorian had stood in her way for long enough to let Cullen get to the bedroom. 

Josephine looked Dorian up and down.  ‘Tell me that’s not all you are wearing.’ 

‘Just these and a sheaf of lilies unless one of those boxes contains the coat I ordered from Valentino and the white Armani shirts.’

‘This one says Armani in very discreet letters.’   

‘Cullen!’

Dorian slit the box open with a thin-bladed knife.  ‘Cullen! Our shirts are here. And your trousers.  And it looks like my coat.’

Cullen emerged in very battered jeans.  He nodded to Josie. 

 ‘Darling, this is my coat.  Let’s make sure it fits.’  He slid it onto his bare shoulders.  It was made of something rich and silken and when the fabric caught the light at odd angles, the seeming white lit to very faint shades of ice blue.  ‘Soie sauvage,’ Dorian said, preening.  The fabric was light and soft and shimmery, and it rippled when Dorian moved, but the coat was the shape men wore in the days of pirates.  The fit was perfect.  Cullen slid his arms around Dorian’s bare waist. 

‘Do you like it?’

‘I like you.’  The bronzed skin was taut under his hands. 

Neither of them could stop looking at the other. 

Josephine looked at them both. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.

‘Don’t forget, though.  You’re our Maid of Honour, and you have to lead the procession!’

Dorian kissed her, a quick dry kiss.  As the door closed behind her, he turned to Cullen. 

‘The shirts?’ 

Both shirts were made of something very faintly sheeny, like the gloss of ice on snow. 

‘Take that lovely coat off so you can try on your shirt.’

Somehow Dorian was sliding Cullen’s new crisp white shirt over his shoulders, buttoning the cuffs.  Cullen slid on Dorian’s shirt.  They were inches apart.  Each began to do up the other’s pearly shirt buttons in a hush that made the air thick as velvet between them. 

They went on until the four hands reached the two throats.  Dorian ran his hand up under Cullen’s chin.  Cullen’s hand slipped to the back of Dorian’s neck.  It was a chaste kiss, a pledge of mouths.   

‘You know, I knew it was hot to take clothes off.  But who knew it was so lovely to put them on?’

Both slid their coats back on. 

Dorian opened the florist box that had arrived two hours ago.  A corsage; a single white carnation.  He pinned it to Cullen’s lapel, and Cullen pinned on Dorian’s corsage, a pale lilac orchid bloom, spotted and mottled with scarlet. 

‘Still resisting the white?’

‘Not resisting you, beloved.  Just – myself.  I am a bit spotted.’ 

‘You’re not spotted.  You’re exotic. I’m – boring.’

‘You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

‘You really want to spend your life with me?’

‘Long or short – yes, I do.  Yes.’ 

* * *

They’d been played in with [Jeremiah Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRrss4kBi2M), a splendidly pompous little beauty that Dorian said made him think of whole _rows_ of amazingly hot Guards in amazingly tight uniforms.  ‘But none hotter than you, my darling.’ 

The tiny ruined church was open to the spring air.  The sky was pale and blue.  There were no seats; everyone stood in the half-walled space. 

They both carried long trailing sprays of lilies, tied with white satin ribbon.  Sam was on a lead held by Cullen’s old friend Cassandra, and Dorian’s friend Cole carried all the cats in an enormous white wicker picnic hamper. 

Dorian drew in a breath.  ‘I promise not to complain about dog hairs on satin or velvet upholstery.  I promise never to say your Christmas decorations are ugly. I promise never to criticise beer.’

Cullen waited till the laughter stopped.  Then he said, ‘I promise to love every swag of floral fabric and every added dado railing.  I promise never ever to ask if eight cats is too many.  I promise to add extra chilli to my food every day until I love it.’

Everyone was laughing, but then Dorian said, ‘And I promise to love you in every way possible, to be your friend and your guru and your saviour and your enclosed scented garden, your refuge and your help, and I promise that I’ll go on loving you even after I die and that I will never ever let you go.’

And then Cullen said it too.  And I promise to love you in every way possible, to be your friend and your guru and your saviour and your enclosed scented garden, your refuge and your help, and I promise that I’ll go on loving you even after I die and that I will never ever let you go.’

There was a hush you could feel on your skin. 

Josie produced the rings. 

Both were flat gold circlets. Cullen slid his ring onto Dorian’s hand.  With this ring I thee wed.  With my body I thee worship.’   

And then Dorian slid his ring onto Cullen’s hand.  ‘With this ring I thee wed.  With my body I thee worship.’ His voice broke just a little on that line.  Around the ruined church, you could hear little sounds of stifled sobs and chokes. 

‘You may kiss one another,’ Lavellan said, and warm mouth met warm mouth in a kiss that sealed it all. 

There were cheers.

Then the music began.  That voice, that adult voice in the body of a child, singing.   ‘Somewhere over the rainbow…’ Everyone broke into more applause.  Dorian flung himself at Cullen and held him tight. 

Voices joined in intermittently.  And when Judy Garland’s voice soared and then dropped into ‘If happy little bluebirds fly above the rainbow, why oh why can’t I?’ 

Dorian’s face, wet with tears against Cullen’s.  ‘Perhaps I can, beloved.  With you, perhaps I can.’ 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! And for being patient about Dorian's transplant - he will get it soon, I promise!
> 
> Remember, writers cannot survive without a diet of kudos and comments... ;)


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